Everything at once, said Mozart, who one day heard the whole composition in a single line. Those who leave, we’re the eagle flying over the monolith.

Boar: Foolish person / a creature easily tricked. Puer: scarce / timid / aesternus. Puerile: shame / excess humility. Child: kid / tot / ankle-biter. Pipsqueak: cheerful rug rat with wide eyes, as if startled. Little one: sleepless.

everyone likes you
because your parents are dead.

Without a wardrobe now,
You abandon that and all your other diplomas
backstage.

CHILDHOOD IS HAD IN THE PRESENT,

in the preterite

OF WHAT DOESN’T HAPPEN.

Lullaby: low, slow song for soothing to sleep. Adult: differential position / insomnia. Jasmine: in Sufi aromatherapy, a bond-strengthening essence. Creature: living thing / product: of man’s imagination, generally fantastical in nature.

I don’t give
I ask him
like the lord

who has taken away
the lord has taken away

Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.

They know nothing of the living.

The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.

“No one’s going to find you here if you don’t make noise, not even the one you make when you suck in your boogers.”

You longed to be like her, whinnying in the storm, swimming the seas of the continent.

Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:

A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.

everyone likes you
because your parents are dead.

Lullaby: low, slow song for soothing to sleep. Adult: differential position / insomnia. Jasmine: in Sufi aromatherapy, a bond-strengthening essence. Creature: living thing / product: of man’s imagination, generally fantastical in nature.

Everything at once, said Mozart, who one day heard the whole composition in a single line. Those who leave, we’re the eagle flying over the monolith.

CHILDHOOD IS HAD IN THE PRESENT,

in the preterite

OF WHAT DOESN’T HAPPEN.

Boar: Foolish person / a creature easily tricked. Puer: scarce / timid / aesternus. Puerile: shame / excess humility. Child: kid / tot / ankle-biter. Pipsqueak: cheerful rug rat with wide eyes, as if startled. Little one: sleepless.

I don’t give
I ask him
like the lord

who has taken away
the lord has taken away

The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.

“No one’s going to find you here if you don’t make noise, not even the one you make when you suck in your boogers.”

Without a wardrobe now,
You abandon that and all your other diplomas
backstage.

Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.

They know nothing of the living.

You longed to be like her, whinnying in the storm, swimming the seas of the continent.

Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:

Say me. Not believing. You entirely disappear.

A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.

From deep in the chasms, hear my voice!

Will you get married?
Yes
When?
Soon
To who?
Me
Who are you?
Papa

There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.

from the same arm of the scales
You satiate childhood with fables of fountains

“And how, from there, from that edge, that muffled yell, that tumbled childhood, can a kingdom spread?”

CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.

a type of speech

MINUTIAE

everyone likes you
because your parents are dead.

Lullaby: low, slow song for soothing to sleep. Adult: differential position / insomnia. Jasmine: in Sufi aromatherapy, a bond-strengthening essence. Creature: living thing / product: of man’s imagination, generally fantastical in nature.

I don’t give
I ask him
like the lord

who has taken away
the lord has taken away

Everything at once, said Mozart, who one day heard the whole composition in a single line. Those who leave, we’re the eagle flying over the monolith.

CHILDHOOD IS HAD IN THE PRESENT,

in the preterite

OF WHAT DOESN’T HAPPEN.

The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.

“No one’s going to find you here if you don’t make noise, not even the one you make when you suck in your boogers.”

Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.

Say me. Not believing. You entirely disappear.

From deep in the chasms, hear my voice!

There are the pigeons, fluttering. End of the minute. Silence. Hundreds of pigeons fly at me, shit on you.

Boar: Foolish person / a creature easily tricked. Puer: scarce / timid / aesternus. Puerile: shame / excess humility. Child: kid / tot / ankle-biter. Pipsqueak: cheerful rug rat with wide eyes, as if startled. Little one: sleepless.

You longed to be like her, whinnying in the storm, swimming the seas of the continent.

Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:

A subtle glimmer in the jasmine. A word,
its texture.

CHILDHOOD IS SOMETHING ELSE.

a type of speech

MINUTIAE

Without a wardrobe now,
You abandon that and all your other diplomas
backstage.

Will you get married?
Yes
When?
Soon
To who?
Me
Who are you?
Papa

from the same arm of the scales
You satiate childhood with fables of fountains

“And how, from there, from that edge, that muffled yell, that tumbled childhood, can a kingdom spread?”

Lullaby: low, slow song for soothing to sleep. Adult: differential position / insomnia. Jasmine: in Sufi aromatherapy, a bond-strengthening essence. Creature: living thing / product: of man’s imagination, generally fantastical in nature.

everyone likes you
because your parents are dead.

I don’t give
I ask him
like the lord

who has taken away
the lord has taken away

Everything at once, said Mozart, who one day heard the whole composition in a single line. Those who leave, we’re the eagle flying over the monolith.

CHILDHOOD IS HAD IN THE PRESENT,

in the preterite

OF WHAT DOESN’T HAPPEN.

Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.

The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.

You longed to be like her, whinnying in the storm, swimming the seas of the continent.

Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:

Boar: Foolish person / a creature easily tricked. Puer: scarce / timid / aesternus. Puerile: shame / excess humility. Child: kid / tot / ankle-biter. Pipsqueak: cheerful rug rat with wide eyes, as if startled. Little one: sleepless.

Lullaby: low, slow song for soothing to sleep. Adult: differential position / insomnia. Jasmine: in Sufi aromatherapy, a bond-strengthening essence. Creature: living thing / product: of man’s imagination, generally fantastical in nature.

everyone likes you
because your parents are dead.

I don’t give
I ask him
like the lord

who has taken away
the lord has taken away

Everything at once, said Mozart, who one day heard the whole composition in a single line. Those who leave, we’re the eagle flying over the monolith.

CHILDHOOD IS HAD IN THE PRESENT,

in the preterite

OF WHAT DOESN’T HAPPEN.

The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.

“No one’s going to find you here if you don’t make noise, not even the one you make when you suck in your boogers.”

Boar: Foolish person / a creature easily tricked. Puer: scarce / timid / aesternus. Puerile: shame / excess humility. Child: kid / tot / ankle-biter. Pipsqueak: cheerful rug rat with wide eyes, as if startled. Little one: sleepless.

Say me. Not believing. You entirely disappear.

Without a wardrobe now,
You abandon that and all your other diplomas
backstage.

Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.

From deep in the chasms, hear my voice!

everyone likes you
because your parents are dead.

Everything at once, said Mozart, who one day heard the whole composition in a single line. Those who leave, we’re the eagle flying over the monolith.

Boar: Foolish person / a creature easily tricked. Puer: scarce / timid / aesternus. Puerile: shame / excess humility. Child: kid / tot / ankle-biter. Pipsqueak: cheerful rug rat with wide eyes, as if startled. Little one: sleepless.

CHILDHOOD IS HAD IN THE PRESENT,

in the preterite

OF WHAT DOESN’T HAPPEN.

Death can’t hold the ghosts, of the living.

Lullaby: low, slow song for soothing to sleep. Adult: differential position / insomnia. Jasmine: in Sufi aromatherapy, a bond-strengthening essence. Creature: living thing / product: of man’s imagination, generally fantastical in nature.

I don’t give
I ask him
like the lord

who has taken away
the lord has taken away

The lord has given, the Lord has taken away.

You longed to be like her, whinnying in the storm, swimming the seas of the continent.

“No one’s going to find you here if you don’t make noise, not even the one you make when you suck in your boogers.”

Say me. Not believing. You entirely disappear.

From deep in the chasms, hear my voice!

Alone
amid marble steps
You shiver in the living room
and assume the irreversible:

Sara Camhaji

visualize the voice of thought.
think the image of the voice.
provoke destiny. play.
from chance, from the sigh.
understand the force that links
the image to the name.
the name is an image.
the image is a verb.
play. nothing is chance.
destiny is a game.
everything is destiny.

This site is part of the project "DON´T TAKE PHOTOS OF THE LANDSCAPE; TAKE PORTRAITS WITH THE VIEW OF THE BACKGROUND IF YOU LIKE", whose creative object revolves around the phenomenon of memory and its conceptual visualization. Thus, Sara explores the different languages on which the mind reloads its truth and the way it constructs our inner world.
About
SARA CAMHAJI (Mexico City, 1986) is a writer, teacher, and mother. Her work is a natural response to her lived experience and the emotional dimensions she has inhabited. She has told and written stories for her entire life. Poetry—the axis of her exploration—has prompted her to develop new discursive forms in close contact with inner human reality; wrenching, they open themselves to embodiment and appropriation. She has a master’s in creative writing, two children, and two published works: Maleza (Alboroto Ediciones, 2022) and this one. A selection of her poems appeared in the UNAM’s Periódico de Poesía. She received a grant from Asylum Arts in 2017 and was awarded the Peleh Fund arts residency in Berkeley, California, for 2023. Narrated poetry or poetic narrative? Sara writes in the voice of an archive with a voice of its own, like a thinking time machine, or from the dark sincerity of she-who-didn’t-know-she-had-to-live.
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